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The Gate 



BY JOHN G. NEIHARDT 


Poetry 


THE STRANGER AT THE GATE 


A BUNDLE OF MYRRH 


MAN-SONG 


Fiction 


life's lure 


THE DAWN-BUILDER 


THE LONESOME TRAIL 


Miscellaneous 


THE RIVER AND I 



The Stranger 
At The Gate 

by 

John G. Neihardt 




NEW YORK 

MITCHELL KENNERLEY 

MCMXII 



Copyright, IQU 
' )hn G. Xeihardt 



K, 



tilotfaxx 



CONTENTS 


Page 


The Weavers 


1 


The Story 


4 


The News 


8 


In the Night , 


IO 


Break of Day 


13 


Dawn Song 


16 


End of Summer 


18 


Vision 


20 


Triumph 


23 


Heritage 


24 


Lullaby 


'26 


The Poet's Town 


29 


Prairie Storm Rune 


41 


The Ghostly Brother 


49 


The Poet's Advice 


52 


Morning Glories 


55 


The Lyric 


57 


Glaucus 


58 


Money 


63 


The Red Wind Comes 


64 


Cry of the People 


67 



The Stranger At the Gate 



i 

THE WEAVERS 

SUNS flash, stars drift, 
Comes and goes the moon 
Ever through the wide miles 
Corn fields croon 
Patiently, hopefully, 
A low, slow tune. 

Lovingly, longingly, 
Labors without rest 
Every happy cornstalk, 
Weaving at its breast 
Such a cozy cradle 
For the coming guest. 

In the flowing pastures, 
Where the cattle feed, 
Such a hidden love-storm, 
Dying into seed — 
Blue grass, slough grass, 
Wild flower, weed! 
i 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Mark the downy flower-coats 
In the hollyhocks! 
Hark, the cooing Wheat-Soul 
Weaving for her flocks! 
Croon time, June time, 
Moon of baby frocks! 

Rocking by the window, 
Wrapt in visionings, 
Lo, the gentle mother 
Sews and sings, 
Shaping to a low song 
Wee, soft things! 

Patiently, hopefully, 

Early, late, 

How the wizard fingers 

Weave with Fate 

For the naked youngling 

Crying at the Gate! 

Sound, sight, day, night 
Fade, flee thence; 
Vanished is the brief, hard 
World of sense: 
Hark! Is it the plump grape 
Crooning from the fence? 

Droning of the surf where 
Far seas boom? 

2 



John G. Neihardt 



Chanting of the weird stars 
Big with Doom? 
Humming of the god-flung 
Shuttles of a loom? 

O'er the brooding Summer 
A green hush clings, 
Save the sound of weaving 
Wee, soft things: 
Everywhere a mother 
Weaves and sings. 



The Stranger at the Gate 



II 

THE STORY 

\J EARLY thrilled the plum tree 
"■■ With the mother-mood ; 
Every June the rose stock 
Bore her wonder-child: 
Every year the wheatlands 
Reared a golden brood: 
World of praying Rachels, 
Heard and reconciled! 

" Poet," said the plum tree's 

Singing white and green, 

" What avails your mooning, 

Can you fashion plums? " 

" Dreamer," crooned the wheatland's 

Rippling vocal sheen, 

" See my golden children 

Marching as with drums! " 

" By a god begotten," 
Hymned the sunning vine, 
" In my lyric children 
Purple music flows! " 
" Singer," breathed the rose bush, 
" Are they not divine? 
4 



John G. Neihardt 



Have you any daughters 
Mighty as a rose? " 

Happy, happy mothers! 
Cruel, cruel words! 
Mine are ghostly children, 
Haunting all the ways; 
Latent in the plum bloom, 
Calling through the birds, 
Romping with the wheat brood 
In their shadow-plays! 

Gotten out of star-glint, 
Mothered of the Moon; 
Nurtured with the rose scent, 
Wild, elusive throng! 
Something of the vine's dream 
Crept into a tune; 
Something of the wheat-drone 
Echoed in a song. 

Once again the white fires 
Smoked among the plums; 
Once again the world-joy 
Burst the crimson bud ; 
Golden bannered wheat broods 
Marched to fairy drums; 
Once again the vineyard 
Felt the Bacchic blood. 
5 



The Stranger at the Gate 



" Lo, he comes — the dreamer — " 

Crooned the whitened boughs, 

" Quick with vernal love-fires — 

Oh, at last, he knows! 

See the bursting plum bloom 

There above his brows ! " 

" Boaster! " breathed the rose bush, 

" 'Tis a budding rose! " 

Droned the glinting acres, 
" In his soul, mayhap, 
Something like a wheat-dream 
Quickens into shape ! " 
Sang the sunning vineyard, 
" Lo, the lyric sap 
Sets his heart a-throbbing 
Like a purple grape ! " 

Mother of the wheatlands, 
Mother of the plums, 
Mother of the vineyard — 
All that loves and grows — 
Such a living glory 
To the dreamer comes, 
Mystic as a wheat-song, 
Mighty as a rose! 

Star-glint, moon-glow, 
Gathered in a mesh! 
Spring-hope, white fire 
6 



John G. Neihardt 



By a kiss beguiled! 
Something of the world-joy 
Dreaming into flesh/ 
Bird-song, vine-thrill 
Quickened to a child! 



The Stranger at the Gatt 



III 

THE NEWS 

ITTLE Breezes, lurking in the green-roofed 
-■— ' covers, 
Where the dappled gloaming keeps the cool night 

dews, 
Up, and waft the wonder of it unto countless lovers! 
Set the tiger lily bells a-tolling out the news! 

Down the eager rivers make the glory of the story roll ! 
Waken joyful shivers in the green gold hush! 
Set it to the warble of the early morning oriole! 
Fill it with the tender, kissing rapture of the thrush! 

Take a little sorrow from the night rain pattering, 
Drowning in a black flood stars and moon ; 
Take a little terror from the zigzag, shattering, 
Blue sword-flash of a storm-struck noon ! 

Breathing through the green-aisled orchard chapels, 
Learn the holy music of the world-old dream ; 
Borrow from the still scarlet singing of the apples; 
Weave it in the weird tale's gloom and gleam ! 

8 



John G. Neihardt 



Hasten with the woven music, make the Summer 
lyrical, 

Sweet as with the odors of a southeast rain ! 

Set the corn a-chatter o'er the glad, impending mir- 
acle! 

A little Stranger whimpers at the Gate of Pain! 



The Stranger at the Gate 



IV 

IN THE NIGHT 

/~\VER the steep cloud-crags 
^~* The marching Day went down- 
Bickering spears and flags, 
Slant in a wind of Doom! 
Blear in the huddled shadows 
Glimmer the lights of the town ; 
Black pools mottle the meadows, 
Swamped in a purple gloom. 

Is it the night wind sobbing 
Over the wheat in head? 
Is it the world-heart throbbing, 
Sad with the coming years? 
Is it the lifeward creeping 
Ghosts of the myriad dead, 
Livid with wounds and weeping 
Wild, uncleansing tears? 

'Twas not a lone loon calling 
There in the darkling sedge, 
Still as the prone moon's falling 
Where in the gloom it slinks! 
10 



John G. Neihardt 



Hark to the low intoning 

There at the hushed grove's edge — 

Is it the pitiless, moaning 

Voice of the timeless Sphinx? 

Woven of dusk and quiet, 
Winged with the dim starlight, 
Hideous dream-sounds riot, 
Couple and breed and grow; 
Big with a dread to-morrow, 
Flooding the hollow night 
With more than a Thracian sorrow, 
More than a Theban woe! 

Dupe of a lying pleasure, 
Dying slave of desire! 
Dreading the swift erasure, 
The swoop of the grisly Jinn, 
Lo, you have trammeled with dust 
A spark of the slumbering Fire, 
Given it nerves for lust 
And feet for the shards of sin! 

Woe to the dreamer waking, 
When the Dream shall stalk before him, 
With terrible thirsts for slaking 
And hungers mad to be fed! 
Oh, he shall sicken of giving, 
Cursing the mother that bore him — 
Earth, so lean for the living, 
Earth, so fat with the dead! 
II 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Cease, O sounds that smother ! 
Peace, mysterious Flouter! 
Lo, where the sacred mother 
Sleeps in her starry bed, 
Dreams of the blessed Comer, 
A white awe flung about her, 
Wrapped in the hopeful Summer, 
The starlight round her head! 



12 



John G. Neihardt 



V 
BREAK OF DAY 

SILENT are the green looms 
And the weavers sleep, 
Nestled in the piled glooms, 
Deep on deep. 

Gaunt, grim trees stand, 
Etched on space, 
Like a mirrored woodland 
On a purple vase. 

Faithful in the dun hour, 
Like a praying priest, 
Eagerly the sunflower 
Scans the East. 

Corn rows, far-hurled, 
Mist-enthralled, 
Vanish in a star world, 
Sapphire-walled. 

Leaning out of dim space 
Over field and town, 
Some hushed mother face 
Peers, bends down; 
13 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Veiled in gleam-blurs, 
Starry locked, 

Brooding o'er the dreamers 
Dawnward rocked. 

Is a spirit walking? 
On a sudden seem 
All the sleepers talking 
In a broken dream! 

All along the corn rows, 
O'er the glinting dews, 
Hark! A muffled horn blows 
Some wild news! 

Listen ! From a plum-close, 
Like a troubled soul, 
Tremulous a voice goes — 
'Tis the oriole! 

Star-lorn, staring, 
The East goes white ! 
Is a Terror faring 
Up the steep of night? 

Boldly, gladly, 
Through the paling hush, 
Wildly, madly, 
Cries the thrush! 



John G. Neihardt 



Tumbled are the piled glooms 
And the weavers stir: 
Once again the wild looms 
Drone and whir. 

Glowing through the gray rack 
Breaks the Day — 
Like a burning haystack 
Twenty farms away ! 



15 



The Stranger at the Gate 



VI 
DAWN SONG 

'"THREADER of the blue steeps and the hollows 

-*■ under! 
Day-Flinger, Hope-Singer, crowned with awful hair! 
Battle Lord with burning sword to cleave the gloom 

asunder ! 
Plunger through the eyries of the eagles of the 

Thunder! 
Stroller up the flame-arched air! 

All-Beholder, very swift and tireless your pace is! 
Now you snuff the guttered moon above the gray 

abyss, 
Moaning with the sagging tide in shipless ocean 

spaces ; 
Now you gladden windless hollows thronged with 

daisy faces; 
Now the corn salutes the Morn that sought Persepolis! 

Searcher of the ocean and the islands and the straits, 
The mountains and the rivers and the deserts and the 

dunes, 
Saw you any little spirit foundling of the Fates, 
Groping at the world-wall for the narrow gates 
Guarded by the nine big moons? 
16 



John G. Neihardt 



Numberless and endlessly the living spirit tide rolls, 
Like a serried ocean on a pleasant island hurled ! 
Sun-lured, rain-wooed, color-haunted wild souls, 
Trooping with the love-thralled, mother-seeking child 

souls, 
Throng upon the good green world! 

Surely you have seen it in your wide sky-going — 
An eager little comrade of the spirits of the wheat ; 
All the hymning forests and the melody of growing, 
All the ocean thunderings and all the rivers flowing, 
Silenced by the music of its feet! 



17 



The Stranger at the Gate 



VII 

END OF SUMMER 

pURPLE o'er the tree tops 
■*• Wild grapes sprawl ; 
In the golden silence 
Few birds call; 
Heavy laden Summer 
Ripens toward the Fall. 



Weary with the seed pods 

Droop the hollyhocks; 

Up and down the wide miles, 

Corn in shocks ; 

Silent is the Wheat Mother, 

And her merry flocks 



Go no more a-marching 
Unto fairy drums. 
Hark! Is it the footfall 
Of the One who comes? 
Silence — save the dropping 
Of the purple plums! 
18 



John G. Neihardt 



Patient, stricken Summer 
Feels the Odic Fires, 
Awful in her ripe domes, 
Mystic in her spires. 
In a holy sadness 
Fruit the Spring desires. 

Last of all the awe-moons, 

Three times three, 

Glimmers down the sun track 

Slenderly — 

Omen of the Wonder 

Soon to be. 

Does the darkness listen 
For a shout of Doom? 
Hist! Was it a thin voice 
Crying from a womb? 
Silence — save a dry leaf's 
Whisper down the gloom. 



19 



The Stranger at the Gate 



VIII 
VISION 

QOON shall you come as the dawn from the dumb 

^ abysm of night, 

Traveler birthward, Hastener earthward out of the 

gloom ! 
Soon shall you rest on a soft white breast from the 

measureless mid-world flight; 
Waken in fear at the miracle, light, in the pain-hushed 

room. 

Lovingly fondled, fearfully guarded by hands that are 

tender, 
Frail shall you seem as a dream that must fail in the 

swirl of the morrow: 
Oh, but the vast, immemorial past of ineffable splendor, 
Forfeited soon in the pangful surrender to Sense and 

to Sorrow! 

Who shall unravel your tangle of travel, uncurtain 

your history? 
Have you not run with the sun-gladdened feet of a 

thaw? 

20 



John G. Neihardt 



Lurked as a thrill in the will of the primal sea-mystery, 
The drift of the cloud and the lift of the moon for a 
law? 

Lost is the tale of the gulfs you have crossed and the 
veils you have lifted : 

In many a tongue have been wrung from you outcries 
of pain : 

You have leaped with the lightning from thunder- 
heads, hurricane-rifted, 

And breathed in the whispering rain! 

Latent in juices the April sun looses from capture, 
Have you not blown in the lily and grown in the weed? 
Burned with the flame of the vernal erotical rapture, 
And yearned with the passion for seed? 

Poured on the deeps from the steeps of the sky as a 

chalice, 
Flung through the loom that is shuttled by tempests at 

play, 
Myriad the forms you have taken for hovel or palace — 
Broken and cast them away! 

You who shall cling to a love that is fearful and pities, 

Titans of flame were your comrades to blight and con- 
sume ! 

Have you not roared over song-hallowed, sword- 
stricken cities, 

And fled in the smoke of their doom? 
21 



The Stranger at the Gate 



For, ancient and new, you are flame, you are dust, you 

are spirit and dew, 
Swirled into flesh, and the winds of the world are your 

breath ! 
The song of the thrush in the hush of the dawn is not 

younger than you — 
And yet you are older than Death! 



22 



John G. Neihardt 



IX 
TRIUMPH 

SEE how the blue-girt hills are spread 
With regal cloth of gold ; 
How, panoplied in haughty red, 
The frosted maples stand ; 
The golden rod, with torch alight, 
Makes glory up the wold — 
As though a monarch's bannered might 
Were marching up the land! 

Now should ecstatic bugles fret 

The hush, and drums should roll; 

The shawms of all the breezes set 

The scarlet leaves a-dance! 

And now should flash in vatic rhyme 

The battles of the Soul — 

To welcome to the realm of Time 

The Vanquisher of Chance! 

For, though there rolls no gilded car 
That spurjis the shaken earth, 
And shout no captains, flinging far 
The law to parlous spears; 
With throbbing hearts for smitten drum: 
Up through the Gates of Birth — 
The Victor comes ! The Victor comes ! 
To claim the ripened years! 
23 



The Stranger at the Gate 



X 

HERITAGE 

/~\H, there are those, a sordid clan, 
^^ With pride in gaud and faith in gold, 
Who prize the sacred soul of man 
For what his hands have sold. 

And these shall deem thee humbly bred: 
They shall not hear, they shall not see 
The kings among the lordly dead 
Who walk and talk with thee! 

A tattered cloak may be thy dole 
And thine the roof that Jesus had: 
The broidered garment of the soul 
Shall keep thee purple-clad! 

The blood of men hath dyed its brede, 
And it was wrought by holy seers 
With sombre dream and golden deed 
And pearled with women's tears. 

With Eld thy chain of days is one: 
The seas are still Homeric seas; 
Thy sky shall glow with Pindar's sun, 
The stars of Socrates! 
24 



John G. Neihardt 



Unaged the ancient tide shall surge, 
The old Spring burn along the bough: 
For thee, the new and old converge 
In one eternal Now! 

I give thy feet the hopeful sod, 

Thy mouth, the priceless boon of breath 

The glory of the search for God 

Be thine in life and death! 

Unto thy flesh, the soothing dust; 
Thy soul, the gift of being free: 
The torch my fathers gave in trust, 
Thy father gives to thee! 



25 



The Stranger at the Gate 



XI 
LULLABY 

SUN-FLOOD, moon-gleam 
Ebb and flow ; 
Twinkle-footed star flocks 
Come and go: 
Eager little Stranger, 
Sleep and grow! 

Yearning in the moon-lift 
Surge the seas; 
Southering, the sun-lured 
Gray goose flees: 
Eager with the same urge, 
You and these! 

Canopied in splendor — 
Red, gold, blue — 
With the tender Autumn 
Cooing through; 
Oh, the mighty cradle 
Rocking you! 



26 



THE POET'S TOWN 



John G. Neihardt 



THE POET'S TOWN 

I 

JliyTlD glad green miles of tillage 

■!▼-!■ And fields where cattle graze, 
A prosy little village, 
You drowse away the days. 

And yet — a wakeful glory 
Clings round you as you doze ; 
One living lyric story 
Makes music of your prose. 

Here once, returning never, 
The feet of song have trod ; 
And flashed — Oh, once forever! — 
The singing Flame of God. 

II 

These were his fields Elysian: 
With mystic eyes he saw 
The sowers planting vision, 
The reapers gleaning awe. 

Serfs to a sordid duty, 
He saw them with his heart, 
Priests of the Ultimate Beauty, 
Feeding the flame of art. 
29 



The Stranger at the Gate 



The weird, untempled Makers 
Pulsed in the things he saw; 
The wheat through its virile acres 
Billowed the Song of Law. 

The epic roll of the furrow 

Flung from the writing plow, 

The dactyl phrase of the green-rowed maize 

Measured the music of Now. 

Ill 

Sipper of ancient flagons, 
Often the lonesome boy 
Saw in the farmers' wagons 
The chariots hurled at Troy. 

Trundling in dust and thunder 
They rumbled up and down, 
Laden with princely plunder, 
Loot of the tragic Town. 

And once when the rich man's daughter 
Smiled on the boy at play, 
Sword-storms, giddy with slaughter, 
Swept back the ancient day! 

War steeds shrieked in the quiet, 
Far and hoarse were the cries; 
And Oh, through the din and the riot, 
The music of Helen's eyes! 
30 



John G. Neihardt 



Stabbed with the olden Sorrow, 

He slunk away from the play, 

For the Past and the vast To-morrow 

Were wedded in his To-day. 

IV 

Rich with the dreamer's pillage, 
An idle and worthless lad, 
Least in a prosy village, 
And prince in Allahabad; 

Lover of golden apples, 
Munching a daily crust; 
Haunter of dream-built chapels, 
Worshipping in the dust; 

Dull to the worldly duty, 
Less to the town he grew, 
And more to the God of Beauty 
Than even the grocer knew! 



Corn for the buyers, and cattle — 
But what could the dreamer sell? 
Echoes of cloudy battle? 
Music from heaven and hell? 

Spices and bales of plunder, 
Argosied over the sea? 
Tapestry woven of wonder, 
And myrrh from Araby? 

31 



The Stranger at the Gate 



None of your dream-stuffs, Fellow, 

Looter of Samarcand ! 

Gold is heavy and yellow, 

And value is weighed in the hand ! 

VI 

And yet, when the years had humbled 
The kings in the Realm of the Boy, 
Song-built bastions crumbled, 
Ash-heaps smothering Troy; 

Thirsting for shattered flagons, 
Quaffing a brackish cup, 
With all of his chariots, wagons — 
He never could quite grow up. 

The debt to the ogre, To-morrow, 
He never could comprehend: 
Why should the borrowers borrow? 
Why should the lenders lend? 

Never an oak tree borrowed, 
But took for its needs — and gave. 
Never an oak tree sorrowed; 
Debt was the mark of the slave. 

Grass in the priceless weather 
Sucked from the paps of the Earth, 
And the hills that were lean it fleshed with its green- 
Oh, what is a lesson worth? 
32 



John G. Neihardt 



But still did the buyers barter 
And the sellers squint at the scales; 
And price was the stake of the martyr, 
And cost was the lock of the jails. 

VII 

Windflowers herald the Maytide, 
Rendering worth for worth; 
Ragweeds gladden the wayside, 
Biting the dugs of the Earth; 

Violets, scattering glories, 

Feed from the dewy gem: 

But dreamers are fed by the living and dead- 

And what is the gift from them? 

VIII 

Never a stalk of the Summer 
Dreams of its mission and doom: 
Only to hasten the Comer — 
Martyrdom unto the Bloom. 

Ever the Mighty Chooser 
Plucks when the fruit is ripe, 
Scorning the ma'ss and letting it pass, 
Keen for the cryptic t3^pe. 

Greece in her growing season 

Troubled the lands and seas, 

Plotted and fought and suffered and wrought— 

Building a Sophocles! 

33 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Only a faultless temple 

Stands for the vassal's groan; 

The harlot's strife and the faith of the wife 

Blend in a graven stone. 

Ne'er do the stern gods cherish 
The hope of the million lives; 
Always the Fact shall perish 
And only the Truth survives. 

Gardens of roses wither, 

Shaping the perfect rose: 

And the poet's song shall live for the long, 

Dumb, aching years of prose. 

IX 

King of a Realm of Magic, 
He was the fool of the town, 
Hiding the ache of the tragic 
Under the grin of the clown. 

Worn with the vain endeavor 
To fit in the sordid plan; 
Doomed to be poet forever, 
He longed to be only a man ; 

To be freed from the god's enthralling, 
Back with the reeds of the stream ; 
Deaf to the Vision calling, 
And dead to the lash of the Dream. 
34 



John G. Neihardt 



X 

But still did the Mighty Makers 
Stir in the common sod; 
The corn through its awful acres 
Trembled and thrilled with God! 



More than a man was the sower, 
Lured by a man's desire, 
For a triune Bride walked close at his side- 
Dew and Dust and Fire! 

More than a man was the plowman, 
Shouting his gee and haw ; 
For a something dim kept pace with him, 
And ever the poet saw ; 

Till the winds of the cosmic struggle 
Made of his flesh a flute, 
To echo the tune of a whirlwind rune 
Unto the million mute. 



XI 

Son of the Mother of mothers, 
The womb and the tomb of Life, 
With Fire and Air for brothers 
And a clinging Dream for a wife; 
35 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Ever the soul of the dreamer 

Strove with its mortal mesh, 

And the lean flame grew till it fretted through 

The last thin links of flesh. 

Oh, rending the veil asunder, 
He fled to mingle again 
With the dread Orestean thunder, 
The Lear of the driven rain ! 

XII 

Once in a cycle the comet 

Doubles its lonesome track. 

Enriched with the tears of a thousand years, 

i^Eschylus wanders back. 

Ever inweaving, returning, 

The near grows out of the far; 

And Homer shall sing once more in a swing 

Of the austere Polar Star. 

Then what of the lonesome dreamer 
With the lean blue flame in his breast? 
And who was your clown for a day, O Town, 
The strange, unbidden guest? 

XIII 

'Mid glad green miles of tillage 
And fields where cattle graze; 
A prosy little village, 
You drowse away the days. 

36 



John G. Neihardt 



And yet — a wakeful glory 
Clings round you as you doze; 
One living, lyric story 
Makes music of your prose! 



37 



PRAIRIE STORM RUNE 



John G. Neihardt 



PRAIRIE STORM RUNE 
I 

THE wild bee sips at the heat-drugged lips 
Of the passionless lily a-nod ; 
The sunflowers stare through the hush at the glare 
Of the face of their tutelar god, and the hair 
Of the gossamer glints in the listless air. 

Ragged and grim on the parched hill-rim, 
The cottonwoods sulk in gray: 
The guiding word of the plowman is heard 
A dream-thralled mile away — half blurred, 
Wounding the calm as a blunted sword. 

Prophecy's minister, dolorous, sinister, 
Hark to the raincrow! Incredible story! 
For the clouds of fleece like banners in peace 
Pine for the winds of glory. Cease, 
Chanter of storm -in the ancient peace! 

The sick land lies as a man ere he dies, 
Loosing his grip in a hush profound ; 
Save when the hidden insects scream 
In jets of watery sound that seem 
Taunts of thirst in a fever dream. 
41 



The Stranger at the Gate 



II 

What mean yon cries where the flat world dies 

In hazy rotundity — 

Tumult a-swoon, silence a-croon, 

Lapped in profundity — bane or boon 

Or only the drone of a fever rune? 

No bird sings — but a grasshopper's wings 
Snap in the meadow. 

On the rim of the hill the cottonwoods spill 
Stagnant puddles of shadow; and still — 
The air is quick with a subtle thrill ! 

A cool, fresh puff! The meadows are rough, 
The cottonwoods whiten and whisper together! 
The plowman at gaze, knee-deep in the maize, 
Judges the weather. A plow-horse neighs, 
Faint and clear as a horn of the fays. 

Haunting the distance with taunting insistence, 
Fiery portents and mumblings of wonder! 
In gardens of gloom, walled steep with doom, 
Strange blue buds burst in thunder, and bloom 
Dizzily, vividly, gaudily, lividly — 
Death-flowers sown in a cannon-gloom! 

Ill 

Lo, on a height hewn sheer out of night, 
Where Mystery labors, 

42 



John G. Neihardt 



Through the Hadean heath from an awe beneath, 
A sprouting of sabers lean from the sheath! 
And bursting the husk of the travailing dusk, 
The world-old crop of the dragon's teeth! 

Banners of battle-might, spear-glint and sword-light 

Over the dream-vague, frowning battalions! 

Hark, the hoarse trumpets bray! Sensing the coming 

fray, 
Wraith-ridden, thunder-hoofed stallions neigh 
Terror into the glooming day! 

A death-hush falls. The shadow sprawls 
Sick in the failing noon. 
The sun flies shorn, aghast, forlorn, 
Like a spectral moon surprised at morn. 
Deathly green is the meadow-sheen, 
Ghastly green the corn. 

IV 

Hark — at last — the burst of the blast — 
The roar of the charge and howls of defiance! 
The cottonwoods, grim on the bleared hill-rim, 
Grapple with giants weird and dim — 
Titan torses, pedisonant horses — 
Gods and demons and seraphim! 

Bloody light from the sword-slashed night — 
Shuddering darkness after! 
Terrible feet trample the wheat ! 
43 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Olympian laughter overhead ! 
Over the roofs rumble the hoofs, 
Over the graves of the dead ! 

And yet — somewhere through the crystal air 
A golden rain is swelling the oats, 
And wild doves croon to the splendid noon 
Of love too big for their throats; and there 
Never the beat of terrible feet — 
Somehow, somewhere. 

Stark in the rain like a face of the slain 

The gray land stares in the fitful light. 

Is it a glimmer of some vague story — 

The corn's green might, the wheatfield's shimmer, 

The sunflower's glory? 



The war wind fails. A gray cloud trails 
Over the sodden plain. 
Swift and bright, the arrowy light 
Smites the rear of the Rain in flight! 
And lo, on high, spanning the sky, 
The arch of a Victor's might! 

Nothing is heard . . . Hark! — a bird 
Calls from a green-gloomed, dripping cover! 
Surely wrath rode not in the blast, 
But some inscrutable Lover passed, 
Aflame with the lust of the Dew for the Dust, 
Out of the Vast into the Vast. 
44 



John G. Neihardt 



The wild bee slips from the housing lips 

Of the lily a-nod. 

Odors sweet in the humid heat! 

A glimmer of God athwart the wheat! 

Aglow with prayer, the sunflowers stare 

At the face of their Paraclete. 



45 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



John G. Neihardt 



THE GHOSTLY BROTHER 

r> ROTHER, Brother calling me 

■*-* Like a distant surfy sea, 

Like a wind that moans and grieves 

All night long about the eaves; 

Let me rest a little span; 

Long I've followed, followed fast; 

Now I wish to be a man, 

Disconnected from the Vast! 

Let me stop a little while, 

Feel this snug world's pulses beat, 

Glory in a baby's smile, 

Hear it prattle round my feet; 

Eat and sleep and love and live, 

Thankful ever for the dawn; 

Wanting what the world can give — 

With the cosmic curtains drawn ! 

Brother, Brother, break the gyves/ 
Burst the prison, Son of Power! 
Product of forgotten lives, 
Seedling of the final flower! 
What to you are nights and days, 
Drifting snow or rainy flaw, 
49 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Love or hate or blame or praise — 
Heir unto the Outer Awe? 

I am breathless from the flight 
Through the speed-cleft, awful night! 
Panting, let me rest awhile 
In this pleasant aether-isle. 
Here, content with little things, 
How the witless dweller sings! 
Rears his brood and steers his plow, 
Nursing at the breasts of Now. 
Here the meanest, yea, the slave 
Claims the heirloom of a grave! 
Oh, this little world is blest — 
Brother, Brother, let me rest! 

/ am you and you are I! 

When the world is cherished most, 
You shall hear my haunting cry, 
See me rising like a ghost. 
I am all that you have been, 
Are not now, but soon shall be! 
Thralled awhile by dust and din — 
Brother, Brother, follow me! 

'Tis a lonesome, endless quest; 
I am weary; I would rest. 
Though I seek to fly from you, 
Like a shadow, you pursue. 



50 



John G. Neihardt 



Do I love ? You share the kiss, 
Leaving only half the bliss. 
Do I conquer? You are there, 
Claiming half the victor's share. 
When the night shades fray and lift, 
'Tis your veiled face lights the rift. 
In the sighing of the rain, 
Your voice goads me like a pain. 
Happy in a narrow trust, 
Let me serve the lesser will 
One brief hour — and then, to dust! 
Oh, the dead are very still! 

Brother, Brother, follow hence/ 
Ours the wild, unflagging speed! 
Through the outer walls of sense, 
Follow, follow where I lead! 
Love and hate and grief and fear- 
'Tis the geocentric dream! 
Only shadows linger here, 
Cast by the eternal Gleam! 
Follow, follow, follow fast! — ■ 
Somewhere out of Time and Place, 
You shall lift the veil at last, 
You shall look upon my face! 
Look upon my face and die, 
Solver of the Mystery! 
I am you and you are I — 
Brother, Brother, follow me! 



51 



The Stranger at the Gate 



THE POET'S ADVICE 
I 

YOU wish to be a poet, Little Man? 
More verses limping 'neath their big intent? 
Well — one must be a poet if one can ! 
But do you know the way the others went? 

Who buys of gods must pay a heavy fee. 
The World loves not its dreamers overmuch. 
And he who longs to drink at Castaly, 
Must hobble there upon a broken crutch. 

One sins by being different, it seems; 
At least so in our human commonweal. 
Who goes to market with his minted dreams, 
Must buy and bear the Cross of the Ideal. 

Lo, tall amid the forest, blackened, grim, 
The lightning-riven pine! — God-kissed was he. 
How all the little beeches jeer at him, 
Safe in their snug arrays of greenery! 

And who shall call the little beeches mad ? 
Not I, who know how big are little acts. 

52 



John G. Neihardt 



Want what you have, and cherish, O my Lad, 
The downright, foursquare, geometric facts! 

II 

But — Oh, the ancient glory in your eyes! 
How bursts a dazzling wonder all around ! 
Wild tempests of ineffable surprise — 
All color, dream and sound ! 

You lip the awful flagons of old time, 
And mystic apples lure you to the bite! 
Blown down the dizzy winds of woven rhyme, 
Dead women come and woo you in the night! 

You tread the myrtle woods past time and place, 
Where shadows flit and splendid echoes croon ; 
And through the boughs some fatal storied face 
Breathes muted music like a Summer moon! 

I know the secret altars where you kneel. 
I know what lips fling fever in your kiss. 
That sorry little drab to whom you steal 
Is Queen Semiramis! 

The Bacchanalia of the sap now reigns! 
Priapic fires burn yonder bough with blooms! 
Lo, goat-songs warbled from the vineyard fanes! 
Lo, Venus-nipples in the apple-glooms! 
53 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Ah, who is older than the vernal surge, 
And who is wiser than the sap a-thrill? 
Forever, he who feels the lyric urge 
Shall do its will! 

— Your rhymes? — Some nimbler footed have been 

worse. 
What broken trumpet echoes from the van 
Where march the cohorts of Immortal Verse! 
Well — one must be a poet if one can. 



54 



John G. Neihardt 



MORNING GLORIES 

DISTANT as a dream's flight 
Lay an eerie plain, 
Where the weary moonlight 
Swooned into a moan; 
Wailing after dead seed, 
Came the ghost of rain; 
There was I a wild weed 
Growing all alone. 

Like a doubted story 
Came the thought of day; 
God and all his glory 
Lingered otherwhere, 
Busy with the dawn-thrill 
Many dreams away. 
Could a little weed's will 
Fling so far a prayer? 

Oh, the sudden wonder! 
(Is a prayer so fleet?) 
From the desert under, 
Morning glories grew! 
Twined me, bound me 
With caressing feet! 
55 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Wove song round me — 
Pink, white, blue! 

As a fog is rifted 

By the eager breeze, 

Darkness broke and lifted, 

Tossing like a sea! 

Lo, the dawn was flowering 

Through the maple trees! 

Oh — and you were showering 

Kisses over me! 



56 



John G. Neihardt 



THE LYRIC 

GIVE the good gaunt horse the rein, 
Sting him with the steel ! 
Set his nervous thews astrain, 
Let him feel the winner's pain, 
Master-hand and -heel! 
Fling him, hurl him at the wire 
Though he sob and bleed! 
Play upon him as a lyre — 
Speed is music set on fire — 
Oh, the splendid steed/ 

Hurl the lyric swift and true 

Like a shaft of Doom ! 

Like the lightning's blade of blue 

Letting all the heavens through, 

And shuddering back to gloom ! 

Like the sudden river-thaw, 

Like a- sabered throng, 

Give it fury clothed in awe — 

Speed is half the lyric law — 

Oh, the mighty song! 



57 



The Stranger at the Gate 



GLAUCUS 

|^ LAUCUS, the fisher, sat his tossing craft: 
^-* The sun was dying on the Roman lake, 
And, save where Day, departing, grimly laughed, 
The skies were dim, as mourning for his sake. 
Safe w r as it for the saucy fish to take 
Its bite unnoticed ; nor did Glaucus see 
The boiling clouds that dogged the fierce winds' wake: 
Far other stormier, gloomier thoughts had he 
Than how his craft went mad upon the dizzy sea. 

" Howl, O mad Winds! You can no stronger blow 
Than blows despairing passion in my brain! 
What care I where my futile soul may go, 
Since our two souls must evermore be twain? 
I am the poor rough toiler of the main, 
A god's desires in a slave's bent form. 
Full many a valiant hero in her vein 
Rebreathes, and unborn kings in her are warm! " 
He spoke, the while he breathed the frenzy of the 
storm. 

" Some hand uncalloused shall unbind her zone. 
Some soft, unweathered cheek shall she caress. 
She is a god's soft song, and I a moan. 
Her veins run day, and mine the dumb distress 

58 



John G. Neihardt 



Of dusk; yet I have felt her bosom press 
Throughout the night against my peasant breast, 
And disenchanting dawn hath left me less, 
Less than a memory of what mocked my rest." 
— Now Night had frowned the last sad glory from 
the west. 



The sea crouched snarling like an ambushed beast, 

And hissing, crashing, sprang upon the bark ! 

Still from the mad abysm of the east 

Debouched the howling cohorts of the Dark! 

Nor lulled the cloud-winged w T inds that they might 

hark 
How gasped the struggling fisher in the sea. 
Meanwhile in drowning Glaucus flashed a spark 
Of that swift flame that thrills infinity, 
And through him ran a voice — "Thou art a deity! " 

The pang of passing pinched his chilling frame; 

The grin of death sat sullen on his face ; 

But o'er his soul a thrill exultant came! 

Within the crystal glories of the place 

He saw his form reflected, full of grace, 

As though the sinuous beauty of the storm 

Had breathed itself in one of mortal race ! 

Then as the god w T elled in him, wild and warm, 

Cleaving the shaken deeps, he mounted in the storm! 



59 



The Stranger at the Gate 



To him the thunder was a pigmy's shout. 
Above the roar of wind and wave he cried: 
" Blow till the frenzied Earth shall toss about 
Again with Titan-pangs! I ride, I ride, 
God of the Wind and Master of the Tide! 
Burst from ./Solus' careful hand and shake 
The ancient dusk and silence that abide 
About the world's end, O ye Winds! Awake! 
Breathe terror through the skies for poor mad Glaucus' 
sake!" 

As some brain with a morbid dream distraught, 

All night the Cosmos trembled with the rush 

Of storm, that, like the darkling, flaring thought, 

Found peace in self-destruction. Morning's blush 

Lured Eos up the scarped east through a hush. 

Afloat upon the dawn-stream, Glaucus knew 

The soft Olympian ecstasies that gush 

From hearts forever young. The world was new; 

Blue was the sea beneath him, the sky about him blue. 

Upon a couch of golden mist reclined 

The new-born Wind-God, Glaucus. Near him 

crooned 
Some unseen Zephyr like a soul that pined ; 
Its theme was love, its notes were sleepy-tuned. 
Then grew on him the soft nights, argent-mooned, 
When, as a mortal, he had crept anigh 
Where she, his Princess, walked, the while he 

swooned 

60 



John G. Neihardt 



With the voluptuous pleasure of his eye. 
— The unseen Zephyr sang ; the Wind God heaved a 
sigh. 

The lazy day strolled up the golden steep. 
A tender vision thrilled the drowsed god's brain. 
There came an amorous woman in his sleep, 
Wide-armed and panting as with gentle pain. 
He knew the face, the form and the sweet strain 
That was her voice: " O Glaucus, I am thine! 
Teach me to die, to leave the flesh and vein 
That make a prison! Oh, that thou wert mine! " 
The god awoke: the day still climbed the long in- 
cline. 

The amorous voice still echoed in his heart. 
Beneath his cloud he bade the swift winds blow. 
Scarce did the golden fleece-couch seem to start, 
When spread a palace garden far below: 
The languorous palms, the flashing founts — and Oh ! 
There slept the being of his sweetest thought! 
So summoned he the various winds that blow 
Sweet-burdened with the subtle incense caught 
From Summer' isles where suns their softest wiles have 
wrought : 

And in the sleeper's blood he bade them creep 
To brew warm passion in her pulse, and sing, 
Weaving their music dreamlike through her sleep, 
The love-begetting amour of their king. 
61 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Then close he crept unto her, whispering 
Words of immortal meaning: " Come with me 
And I shall make thee deathless! From the spring 
That laves Olympus thou shalt drink, and be 
Bride of the boundless Air and mistress of the Sea! 

" All night our souls shall twine, while Dian's star 

Pours out Elysium on our fleecy sleep. 

And we shall sight the sunrise from afar, 

And we shall thrill to see Apollo leap 

Out of the Deep to plunge into the Deep! 

The Horses of the Storm shall stoop to thee, 

And thou shalt back them, queenlike, and shalt sweep 

Into the unlocked depths of Mystery — 

Bride of the boundless Air and mistress of the Sea! " 

What said the sleeper's soul ? Ah, who can know 
What fond, unspoken vows were plighted then? 
Did not the wind that day more gently blow, 
And was the air not scented sweet, as when 
Dates burst to make the desert glad again? 
Ah, thankless task, to urge a modern shell 
To croon into the ears of hurried men 
The music of the wonder that befell ! 
For cold her form was found. The rest the peasants 
tell. 



62 



John G. Neihardt 



MONEY 

A SON of Adam dug besfde the way. 
"Why, Brother, do you dig?" I stopped to 
ask. 
Standing at stoop and pausing in his task, 
From dreary eyes he wiped the sweat away. 
" I work for money." " What is money, pray? " 
" A foolish question, this you come to ask! " 
Yet in that gray and worry-haunted mask 
At hide-and-seek I saw my query play. 

" It is the graven symbol of your ache," 

I said, " — the minted meaning of your blood ; 

And he who works not, robs you when he buys ! 

You are the vassal of a thing you make ! " 

I left him staring hard upon the mud, 

The glimmer of a portent in his eyes. 



The Stranger at the Gate 



THE RED WIND COMES! 

TOO long mere words have thralled us. Let us 
think! 
Oh ponder, are we " free and equal " yet? 
That July bombast, writ with blood for ink, 
Is blurred with floods of unavailing sweat! 

An empty sound we won from Royal George! 
Yea, till the last great fight of all is won, 
A sentimental show was Valley Forge, 
A mawkish, tawdry farce was Lexington! 

No longer blindfold Justice reigns; but leers 
A barefaced, venal strumpet in her stead ! 
The stolen harvests of a hundred years 
Are lighter than a stolen loaf of bread ! 

O pious Nation, holding God in awe, 
Where sacred human rights are duly priced! 
Where men are beggared in the name of Law, 
Where alms are given in the name of Christ ! 

The Country of the Free? — O wretched lie! 
The Country of the Brave ? — Yea, let it be ! 
One more good fight, O Brothers, ere we die, 
And this shall be the Country of the Free ! 
64 



John G. Neihardt 



What! Are we cowards? Are we doting fools? 
Who built the cities, fructified the lands? 
We make and use, but do we own the tools? 
Who robbed us of the product of our hands? 

A tiger-hearted Tyrant crowned with Law, 
Whose flesh is custom and whose soul is greed ! 
Ubiquitous, a nothing clothed in awe, 
We sweat for him and bleed! 

Religion follows proudly in his train! 
Daft Freedom raves her fealty at his side! 
Surviving kingship, he eludes the vain, 
Misguided dagger of the regicide! 

Yea, and we serve this Insult to our God! 
Gnawing our crusts, we render Caesar toll! 
We labor with the back beneath his rod, 
His shackles on the soul! 

He is a System — wrought for human hogs! 
So long as we shall hug a hoary Lie, 
And gulp the vocal swill of demagogues, 
The Fat shall rule the sty! 

Behold potential plenty for us all! 
Behold the pauper and the plutocrat! 
Behold the signs prophetic of thy fall, 
O Dynast of the Fat ! 

65 



The Stranger at the Gate 



Lo, even now the haunting, spectral scrawl! 
Lo, even now the beat of hidden wings! 
The ghosts of millions throng thy banquet-hall, 
O guiltiest and last of all the kings! 

Beware the Furies stirring in the gloom ! 

They mutter from the mines, the mills, the slums! 

No lies shall stay or mitigate thy doom — 

The Red Wind comes! 



66 



John G. Neihardt 



CRY OF THE PEOPLE 

TREMBLE before thy chattels, 
Lords of the scheme of things! 
Fighters of all earth's battles, 
Ours is the might of kings! 
Guided by seers and sages, 
The world's heart-beat for a drum, 
Snapping the chains of ages, 
Out of the night we come ! 

Lend us no ear that pities! 

Offer no almoner's hand! 

Alms for the builders of cities! 

When will you understand? 

Down with your pride of birth 

And your golden gods of trade! 

A man is worth to his mother, Earth, 

All that a man has made! 

We are the workers and makers ! 

We are ncr longer dumb ! 

Tremble, O Shirkers and Takers! 

Sweeping the earth — we come ! 

Ranked in the world-wide dawn, 

Marching into the day! 

The night is gone and the sword is drawn 

And the scabbard is thrown away! 

67 



The Stranger at the Gate 



EXTRACTS FROM APPRECIATIONS OF 
" MAN-SONG " 

<( There is a rugged Saxon strength and a vigorous 
originality in the poetry of John Neihardt, that place 
him in the very front rank of American poets. The 
verse of his Man-Song seems to have been hammered 
out of iron, rather than chiseled or molded from any 
softer material." — The Literary Digest. 

11 The entire work throbs with life as an opal with 
color, and to read it is like playing with fire — or a 
naked heart." — Chicago Record-Herald. 

" No weakling could so chant of man in his rela- 
tion to man, to woman, to Nature, to God. His mel- 
odies pour forth with the irresistible force and stern 
music of; a mountain torrent. Neihardt has blazed his 
own trail and with the divine fire." — Baltimore Sun. 

" One thing at least is established beyond the likeli- 
hood of controversy — the author's right to be ranked 
among the very foremost poets of the younger genera- 
tion. — Verbal magic and pictorial suggestiveness that 
are characteristic of great lyrical work." — Brooklyn 
Eagle. 

" John G. Neihardt is a poet unqualified, unless it 
be by the adjective, great." — San Francisco Call. 
68 



John G. Neihardt 



" Among the few American poets of to-day, there is 
none more gifted with the seer's art than John G. 
Neihardt." — Orange (N. J.) Chronicle. 

" The rare hand for devising arresting epithets, 
which distinguishes Stephen Phillips at his best, is Mr. 
Neihardt's too; and now and then his verses roll out 
as sonorously as Marlowe's mighty line. — In writing 
blank verse, that noble English measure, he is a crafts- 
man of unquestioned skill." — H. L. Mencken in 
Smart Set. 

" The most striking thing about ' Man-Song ' is its 
amazing growth in various directions (as compared 
with 'A Bundle of Myrrh') but chiefly in lyrical 
power and artistic finish. There are a half dozen 
lyrics in this collection that are perfect verbal magic — 
they are irresistible. But this is not all; beneath the 
wonderful singing quality are form, compression, re- 
serve force, meaning; the spontaneity now is that ap- 
parent artlessness, which is the triumph of lyrical art." 

— Albany Argus. 

" There is an awe-inspiring element in this work." — 
— Van Nordens Magazine. 

" There is in this volume a striking note of origi- 
nality and power ; the strong firm voice of a poetic per- 
sonality. — Neihardt has the poet's power to concentrate 
whole pages of prose in one flashlight sentence." 

— Duluth Herald. 

" His imaginative power, his acuteness in simile 
and his authentic passion, stir one as no mediocre 
writer can." — Boston Advertiser. 

69 



The Stranger at the Gate 



" Here is real poetry, virile and vital to a degree, a 
veritable man -cry. — Mr. Neihardt's strength goes hand 
in hand with beauty, the beauty of stormy sunsets and 
thunderous seas and of wonderful women in old for- 
gotten cities. One puts down his book thrilled and 
exhilarated." — Theodosia Garrison in Boston Herald. 

" Mr. Neihardt's work is wholesomely beautiful, 
often with a robustious exuberance, now and then 
striking a stronger note of tenderness. By escaping 
the fallacy that it is American to write about Indians 
and modern to write about railroads, he has made 
poems modern and American in the only true sense 
upon themes either ancient or timeless." — The Book- 
man. 

"It is Walt Whitman observing every rule of rhe- 
toric, rhyme and rhythm, with many passages of lyric 
sweetness of which Whitman knew nothing. There 
are beautiful thought-pictures, dreams that seem real- 
ities, visions such as the old prophets had." — 
— Nebraska State Journal. 

" The lyric intensity of a naive and passionate human 
voice." — New York Times. 

"... At the age of thirty, four years after the 
issuance of ' A Bundle of Myrrh,' and two years 
after ' Man-Song,' Neihardt seems to be firmly es- 
tablished among the living poets. . . . He has 
written some of the finest stanzas that have blessed a 
prosaic age. . . . His work should take its place 
with the best poetry of his time." 

— Tacoma {Wash.) Ledger. 
70 



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